


Young and Dumb and in Love

by dynamiteScribbler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Album fic - Mat Kearney, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Barista Castiel, Child Abuse, M/M, Photographer Dean, but it's gonna be fluffy and great, coffee shop AU, it's not pretty, will add more tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:30:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamiteScribbler/pseuds/dynamiteScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's a photography teacher at Bucknell University, Pennsylvania. Cas works in a coffee shop not far away. It's no secret that they like each other when Dean first moves here, but Cas comes from a rough background, and it's coming back to haunt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, guys, this is my first long fic. Should prove to be interesting. I won't be able to update too often, but I plan on sticking with this, so I hope it's worth it. Feedback would be rad so I know what you think :3
> 
> Based on the album Young Love by Mat Kearney.

Lewisburg is not Lawrence, that much Dean is sure of. Lawrence is much more dirt roads, as opposed to sidewalks and steepled houses, but if he has to admit it to himself, the newness is not to be rejected. There’s certainly much more to photograph, based purely on the fact that since he’d arrived three days ago, Dean estimates that the number of photos he’s taken is in the high hundreds. That’s with all of the moving he did into Garth’s place, too.

Dean had been living in Lawrence his entire life. His mother had died when he was almost five, leaving just him, his brother, his dad, and a few family friends. After that, his dad became distant. He drank more, generally avoided staying around places too long, and more often than not, Sammy and Dean were dropped at their Uncle Bobby’s while their dad was either working or on an escape. It hadn’t been much of a surprise or a loss when his dad got into a car wreck about a year later and never could come home for another of his brief visits, but it hit Dean all the same.

He’d become the smallest cynic on Earth after that. When he’d started school, he’d bite the other kids. He would strike out at the adults that would attempt to pacify him and growl when they would look his way. Most often they could find him off by himself, sitting and staring out the window at the cars that drove lazily down the road in the hot Lawrence air, wishing he was anywhere but there. At home he’d brood about, sprawling on the couch and refusing to speak. When he wasn’t simply being a little pain, he’d hide up in one of the spare bedrooms, squirming under the bed to the farthest corner and staying there for hours until Bobby would eventually find him and sigh as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and telling him that there was dinner downstairs if he ever felt like eating it.

Actually, the only occasion that he didn’t have his permanent frown on was when he’d go to check on Sammy: everyday after school. He’d sprint up the stairs on his little legs and press his back to the hallway’s wall outside of the door. Bobby’s neighbor, a nice woman with greying hair and a kind face, would simply walk out of the room with a small smile so he could dart in and peek his head up over the top of the crib. Dean appreciated the fact that she never attempted to speak to him after he first refused to, but that didn’t mean he liked her at all. He hadn’t even known her name, and he’d liked it better that way.

But Bobby wasn’t one to put up with that, and it was the very next particularly sour Christmas that he had plopped a camera into little Dean’s lap with a snarl to mar his usually patient face. Dean had looked up at him with curious eyes and a squint of suspicion. The older man huffed before he said, “You got so many sour memories up in that head a yours, ya gotta replace ‘em with some that won’t eat ya alive. This should help you remember ‘em,” and walked away.

Dean remembers pushing the thing off of his lap and onto the coffee table, just glaring at it for a while. He didn’t believe a camera could help him. How could it when not a single person could? When he couldn’t help himself? He couldn’t even have fun anymore. He didn’t touch it. For days it sat on the coffee table as the Christmas tree’s needles began to brown and fall. Still, he would eye it whenever he walked by. His scowl would grow less and less tight, his resolve for not acknowledging the thing dwindled, and one early morning Bobby held his cup of coffee as a smirk crawled across his face at the empty coffee table and a first grader who refused to meet his gaze without a red face.

 

That had been eighteen years ago, and who would have thought that Dean’d still be carrying a camera around? Of course, he’s moved on from that first little camera, replacing the dinky little thing with a camera that costs about as much as a downpayment on a car. If you had told him that’d in eighteen years he’d be a teacher for a liberal arts college in Pennsylvania, he probably would have pissed himself laughing. He would’ve called you mad and ask if you’d been sniffing glue with the kids in his class. And yet here he stands, not even ten minutes from the campus he starts at in a week. Bucknell University, a job he’d scored about six months after Sam left for Stanford. Granted, he was starting Winter term in a brand new state where the only two people he knew were his housemate, Garth, and his old college friend, Benny, but, hey, you’d never hear Dean speak an ill word of it.

Unpacking at Garth’s hadn’t taken nearly as much time as he’d allotted for, even with Garth’s mutt of a dog, Rufus, dancing and tripping around Dean’s feet with every box he’d hefted up the stairs. All of that free time leaves him meandering around downtown and waiting for a tour of Bucknell scheduled in about an hour. He finds himself pushing in the door of a little cafe, the bells above wiggling on their string and chiming at the new arrival, the heavenly scents of vanilla and brown sugar intoxicating him.  ‘Anna’s’ is written in swirling letters taller than Dean’s forearm across the first of the cafe’s large windows in white. Behind the lettered glass of the storefront and immediately to his left stretches a case filled with pastries glazed, drizzled, and overstuffed with creams and jellies. At the end is an indent where a counter sits. A head of shaggy brown hair turns toward the noise of a new customer. Dean takes no notice and stares around the shop, his body sucking in the warmth of the building through his jacket and replacing the autumn chill as he inspects the light paneling and most likely oak beams stretching across the ceiling. He pulls his eyes away and lazily strides in towards the counter.

The barista greets him in a voice Dean doesn’t notice while he eyes the order board. He answers with a sidetracked, “Hey,” while his eyes scan the chalkboards above them. He feels the man look away and continue wiping out the ceramic mug he’s been holding. Dean’s eyes trace the letters on the board, turning over thoughts of complicated coffees and brews, debating a more complicated coffee or his usual go-to. Maybe something with hazelnut will get him more excited for his tour. Maybe it would kill the pangs of nervousness that kept hitting him around his navel. Then again, maybe it’d just upset it more. A hushed breath reaches his ear, a mutter that Dean believe to be, “americano,” but feels that he’s probably just being paranoid. Either way, he pretends not to have heard the barista and stares at the boards for another twenty seconds or so to make it obvious that it was unheard. Perhaps the mutter was right in picking his usual.

Turning back to the counter, Dean is ready to give a flirtatious eyebrow lift to the clever barista. He not prepared for the onslaught of blue that engulfs his gaze upon the man turning his head. Dean has to blink quickly before his eyes can refocus and his thoughts can return to coffee. He clears his throat quickly and says, “One Americano. Double-shot, please.” The barista nods and takes takes his money with a generic service smile, opening the register with a soft ching and handing him back his change. Dean thinks he sees a small smirk as he turns to make his drink. Shaking his head at his pathetically juvenile mistake, he rolls his eyes and leans back against the counter.  
Dean’s eyes drift around the cafe. The ceilings are fairly high for a cafe, maybe ten feet. He’s sure his brother, Sammy, would still find a way to smack his head on them if he were to bring him in here. The walls are a warm almond, a darker shade of the off-white floor tiles that spread from the counter and under the tables and chairs until they hit platform that sits half a  foot above the tiled floor about thirty feet across the shop. Charcoal carpet covers the raised floor for about ten feet, where booths in dark naugahyde line the walls. The contrast from the bright shop automatically attracts Dean. He turns back to the counter, watching the man making his drink. His messy hair is a dark chocolate brown, quite the contrast to his blazing eyes, Dean thinks. Stubble crawls up from his chin up to his cheeks. the barista stares intently, but relaxed, at the drink he’s making. His face gives away no hints as to what he could possibly be thinking, and that slightly frustrates Dean, being used to gathering bit about people before he actually knows a thing about them from spoken word. If only he could see his eyes again he might get a clue. The barista finishes his drink and turns to hand Dean his cup. Against his green apron, Dean catches sight of a nametag, but he turns away too quickly for him to read it, only adding to the furrow in his mind. Clever and mysterious were two things Dean never appreciated together.

“Thanks,” is all Dean manages to the brunette before turning from the counter. So the guy somehow knows what Dean’s drink of choice is and finds that somewhat amusing, and Dean knows not a single thing. It’s a small annoyance, but an annoyance nonetheless. Dean shrugs it off as his nerves for the tour; it’s not going to matter in twenty minutes when he finishes his drink.

He retreats to the corner booth next to the last large window in the row and watches people pass by as he sips his drink. In a space that could cosily fit twenty-five, only four spaces are taken.  He occasionally glances at his watch, successfully making his time tick by even more slowly. Patience never being one of his virtues, he studies the other patrons. Completely across the room from him is a younger couple, sipping at steaming drinks and chittering at each other with grins on their flushed faces. An even younger guy in black jeans and a jacket to match sits a few tables away from the couple, his head leaned back over his chair and against the wall, earbuds drowning out what little noise the shop creates. Finally, in the center of the building is an older man typing furiously at his laptop, his drink off to the side and obviously long cold. He squints grouchily at the screen, obviously not approving of whatever he’s been typing across it. Dean sits a few minutes longer, thumbing the sides of his coffee cup and losing himself in his blank but jittery thoughts. Finally finishing his coffee, he takes it back up to the counter, almost wanting the guy behind the counter to have to walk back there for his cup because he’s a lazy ass, but he doesn’t. He goes to the door and calls back, “Thanks, again,” before he closes the door firmly behind him, the bells jingling again at his departure.

 

Dean knows he’s early. He kicks himself for being in such a nervous rush, thankfully, he’s not kept wait long. Just a few minutes after he arrives to the Bucknell entryway, a slim young man in a dress shirt and pants comes walking down the long corridor to his left, a clipboard in hand. Sunlight streams in through the wide windows that line the halls down each corridor, and Dean has to stop himself from taking out his camera and snapping a few photos of it as the young man strides down towards him. The kid’s probably only about five years younger than Dean, with sandy blonde hair that could probably use a good trimming. It hangs down his forehead and onto his eyebrows in light waves, barely hiding his obvious nervous look as he smiles sheepishly at Dean from behind his thick black frames. Dean notices pale freckles that pepper his nose before the guy clears his throat and puts on a brave voice.   
“Um, Dean Winchester?”  
“That’d be me,” Dean grins, trying to make the guy look not so much like a twitching leaf.

The kid lets out an obvious breath that he hardly tries to disguise. “I’m Samandriel. I’m supposed to show you around the campus today.” Samandriel gives him a now excited grin.

“That’s what I’m told. You all sure have some weird names around here.” Dean sticks out his hand for a shake that Samandriel shakes after swapping his clipboard into his other hand.   
“So what’s a young guy like you doing showing me around? Figured I’d be led around by Zackariah or something.”

“Oh, uh,” The kid looks down and tries to almost hide his face behind his clipboard, and Dean wants to take back what he said. “I just, I requested to show you around today. I’m going to be in your Photography 1 class this term, and-”

Dean cuts him off with a light clap on his shoulder and a wide grin. “A Photographer. Just wanted to get a feel out for the new teach’, huh? Awesome. Where to, Sam?”  
Samandriel’s face melts back into a huge smile and he leads Dean back down the corridor he’d first come from.

He leads first into the science wing. Classrooms line the hall for Engineering, Chemistry, Biology, and more just keep coming. He peers into one classroom with walls lined with diagrams and posters of human anatomy and the contents of a ribcage. He jokes, “Hey, where do you keep the dead guys?”

Samandriel is puzzled by his question before he sinks into a smile. “Oh, the cadavers are held in the basement. Only medical students are allowed down to see them.”  
Dean attempts to be comfortable with that thought and continues to try to pay attention to Samandriel’s ramblings about the school founding.

“If you were wondering about our ‘funny names’, the school was originally founded by a Baptist Church. Zachariah’s family had been running it since it opened. I’m actually kind of his cousin, so I guess they run in the family.”  
Dean nods along with an interested smile. Zachariah holds no similarity to this kid at all, and Dean’s pretty glad about it. Zach’s great for giving him a job and all, but he’s not exactly the kind of guy Dean would go out and have a beer with.  
Samandriel leads him through the huge cafeteria, which makes Dean wish he’d grabbed a bearclaw or something from the cafe that morning, but he doesn’t say as much out loud. After another hour Sam is finished showing him through the Education wing and the computer labs, which nearly bored Dean to tears and had him almost begging to a higher power for the school to just collapse and the tour to be over. He leads Dean through the three story library in a hushed voice, even though the term is over and only a few students mingle in the sitting areas.  
“Dude, why are you whispering?” Dean asks in a perfectly normal voice.  
Samandriel flinches a bit and flits his eyes around before shushing him as if he wasn’t a teacher. Samandriel stares with large eyes as Dean cocks an eyebrow at him, daring him to try and hush him again.  
The poor tour guide squeaks out, “Pam. Please, don-”  
He’s cut off by someone yanking Dean’s ear down and around to face a sign pasted to one of the bookshelves that line the walls. “Hey, sweet thing. Mind rereading that for me?” a silky voice says above his head. Dean squeezes one eye shut with the force of the fingers holding his ear. Incredibly indignated, he looks over the sign.   
“No f-food. No drink. Nothing above a w-”  
“A whisper,” the voice finishes for him. “Think you can handle that, Tiger?”  
The hand lets go of Dean, who stands up and rubs his ears with a grimace, looking up at the woman who had manhandled it so fiercely. A sly smiles sits under a pair of perfectly almond shaped eyes. Hazel irises peer out from under dark lashes.   
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I got it,” Dean says and stand the rest of the way up.   
“Dean, this is Pamela,” Samandriel nearly stutters. “Pamela, this is Dean winchester, the new Photography-”  
“I already know who he is, Samandriel. And calm down, kid, I don’t bite that bad.” She flicks her eyes to Sam and back to Dean. “So, those are my rules. Can’t handle ‘em, then I’ll see you around sweetcheeks.” Pamela saunters back to her desk and Dean hits Sam with an exasperated look. They head for the doors soon after.  
Pamela was a much needed, if not quite so pleasant, detour, but Dean’s about ready to weep with relief by the time they finally hit the Art wing.  
“So, here’s your department, I guess.” Samandriel pushes the doors open as Dean lets out a whimper of an “Oh, thank God.”

Paintings, abstracts, and photographs line the walls between classroom doors. Paintings of waves ranging from possible mermaids-turned-human to beach-what’s-a-beach? levels take up a huge expanse of wall a few doors down the hallway. What Dean assumes is a kind of abstract portrait stretches from floor to ceiling on the opposite wall in what looks like oil pastels. It’s not exactly what Dean would call “art”, but who was he to judge what people thought it was? He thought beauty was somewhere between snowflakes filtering through dead alder branches and a flower growing from the crack of an abandoned parking lot, so, yeah, he wasn’t really the best critic.

Dean lets Samandriel lead him a few doors down the wide hallway before opening a door to the right. “So, this is you. Room 312.”  
Dean takes a breath as Samandriel holds the door before finally walking in. His room isn’t huge, he didn’t expect it to be. With luck, his class wouldn’t be spending much time in here anyway. Sure, there was the mandatory brief history section of the class, and the written essay wouldn’t be due until the end of term, and even that would be written outside of class. Yeah, he could dig this room. A wall-length whiteboard stretches across the front of the room. Large windows with slatted blinds open to a covered walkway around the perimeter of the huge open portion of the college, where cement pathways crisscross the grass littered with fallen leaves. If Dean goes to the back of the wall of windows, he can see the large head building with its white steeple pointed up at the darkening afternoon sky. He glances at his watch.  
“Man, some tour, huh? Almost four hours. Thanks for showing me around.”   
Samandriel ducks his head and smiles. “Of course, Mr. Winchester. It was fun. Thank you for letting me.”  
Dean ignores the awkward feeling of being addressed by his last name and walks back to the entrance of the college after bidding Samandriel a good afternoon. He tugs the collar of his jacket up around his neck as he walks, glancing at his watch that said it was just after five, thinking that he really, really did not want to walk the twenty-five minutes back to Garth’s. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he phones Benny and asks him to come pick his freezing ass up.  
“Where at?” the familiar voice rumbles from the receiver.

Dean has to think a moment before he says, “Anna’s. You know the place?”  
“Yeah, I know it. They’ve got some good scones. Be there in twenty.”

Dean returns his phone to his pocket before trekking the last few minutes to the cafe, which he is thankful is open until 6 when it’s cold. The lights of the shop are much warmer than the sinking light of the sun. By this time next week, the sun would be setting long before then. Dean was grateful for the extra bit of light.

He pushes the door open, making the bells jingle for the third time that day. Dean immediately notes that the dark haired barista is still there, slumping lightly on the counter. The bags under his eyes are darker than before, but he looks almost genuinely curious to see a stranger’s face twice in one day. Even through their drowsy glaze, his eyes are still brilliantly bright blue, if drained. Dean’s stomach twists at how downright tired the man looks, but he supposes that’s just the guy’s job, he can’t help that. He goes to the counter and glances at the menu boards for a moment.  
“A chai tea, to go, please. Sorry it’s so late,” he offers sympathetically to the tired man.

He shrugs and Dean is shocked at the low rumble of a voice he replies in. “ ‘S no biggie.” He makes the drink without a hitch, handing the steaming to go cup to Dean, who hands him exact change. No use making the guy count out a couple of pennies and dimes. Dean’s eyes wander over the guy’s face. He really is quite handsome. A strong jawline, thick dark hair pushed across the top of his head messily. Heck, even his stubble’s pretty attractive. His darkened features compliment his surprisingly rough voice, and he has to admit, it’s not an unpleasant discovery.

Dean doesn’t think the poor guy could hold small talk to save his life, and thankfully he’s saved by the sound of Benny’s horn outside. He shoves a few dollars into the tip jar near the register and walks out the door.

Benny’s charcoal ‘62 Bentley is a beauty. Dean lets out a low whistle as he leaves the coffee shop. Benny hangs out of the driver’s window with a large grin spread across his grizzly face. “Still the beaut’ she was the last time you saw her. Had to get her out one more time before it got too cold.”  
“Yeah, yeah, Benny. You can admit it. You just wanted to gloat.”  
A not very innocent smirk slides across his features. “Maybe.”  
“Hey. Baby’ll be here by the end of the week. Bobby ‘n’ Rufus are driving her up Thursday.”  
“Yeah, I know. I just hope they don’t wreck her along the way.”   
Benny starts up his car and pulls away from the curb. Dean tosses another glance at the cafe as he does that doesn’t go unnoticed.  
“What’s got your eyes captivated?” He throws a sidelong look at his passenger.

“What? Nothing. It’s just a pretty cool cafe, man.”  
“Mmmhmm.” Benny lets the sound die in his throat for a minute. “So who is it?”

Dean groans. “Nobody. This guy at the counter in there’s got these weird blue eyes. That’s it.” Dean mentally kicks himself, a few times, for not thinking of glancing at the guy’s nametag when he’d just had the chance.  
“Yeah, cause that’s an important piece of information t’ save. Not your tour or somethin’ like that..”  
Dean rolls his eyes and groans in frustration at his own stupidity. Of course his tour was important, and of course Benny would want to hear about it. He flops back against his seat. Benny’s always been cool about his bi-curious thing. In fact, he didn’t even mind in the least when Dean told him, he just kind of accepted it and moved on. Dean’s still a bit on the fence about it, taken by the fact that he’s never actually been with another guy before, but he doesn’t figure it’s all that important. So he can appreciate a hot chick and a hot dude, the details aren’t important.

Dean slumps forward a bit to meddle with the radio a bit, flipping the dials to the local classic rock station. Led Zeppelin's scratchy voice belts out the chorus of Ramble On, and Dean relaxes back into his seat. He huffs again before he speaks.

“So I’m scoping out the attractive. It’s a new town, I’ve gotta scope people out.”  
Benny hums in his throat thoughtfully, a smile on his lips. He pulls up outside of Garth’s front porch, a pathetic one, really, but a porch nonetheless. “Mhmm. Sure, Bud. Here ya are, safe an’ sound.”

Dean rolls his shoulders and stretches in the small cab as best he can. “Thanks, man. I’ll tell ya about the campus later, alright?”  
“Alright. See you later, Dean.”

Dean pushes the Bentley’s passenger door shut and waves as Benny pulls away. He’d take him out to lunch later to make it up to him; Dean was just happy to be home.

The sun had set almost half an hour before, and Garth had enough courtesy to turn on the porch light for him. He climbs the steps and unlocks the door with his own key. Rufus barks from his bed in the corner near the stairs, not even bothering to get up.  
“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya.” He shuts the door. “Garth? Hey, Garth!”  
Dean is met with silence. He shrugs. The guy must be out with a buddy or something. It’s no sweat off Dean’s nose. He walks straight down the hall to toss his still half-full tea into the trash, having gone cold a while ago. He stretches again before he wanders back down the hall and up the stairs to his room. Flopping down on his bed, he tugs his phone from his jeans and types out a quick message to Sammy to tell him he’d made it home. He doesn’t even notices when he crashes, still skewed across his mattress.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently working on chapter 3! Not sure when it'll be out, but it's coming!

Garth is just about ready to kill Dean. In all honesty, he thinks he’d rather eat Rufus than listen to Dean sulk around the house with cabin fever for another hour. He hadn’t even gone out on New Year’s, though Garth had gotten some relief while he was out with some of his own friends.  
“Why don’t you go out an’ get some friends, Dean?” he asks, exasperated after three days of Dean driving him up a wall.  
Dean looks at him like he’d sprouted a second head on his spindly shoulders, as if he hadn’t been a reclusive drama queen for half of a week. As if Garth didn’t know how little Dean liked meeting new people. Garth rolls his eyes and shoulders, staring at the ceiling through his fingers.  
“Why not go visit Benny or somethin’?”  
“Benny’s at wor-”  
“I don’t care, Dean. Just get outta here for a few hours. The air’ll do you some good.” He mutters, “You ‘n me, both.”

Not really caring whether he’s annoyed Garth or not, Dean knows he has been going stir crazy. It’s hard to miss the reeling in his mind and the way his fingers twitch when he’d sit down, and without Baby he had no means of escape other than Garth’s beat up old volvo, unless he wanted to walk, the furthest possible place being the university, but Benny’s was in the realm. He phones Benny at the garage and makes sure it’s alright to visit with him while he works on his cars. He can hear Benny’s smirk as he tells him he’s going to need a definite pick-me-up if he’s gonna deal with Dean this early, but Dean complies, assuring him there will be proper retribution.   
In half an hour Dean is sliding on his coat, thicker than the one from a few days ago. It was definitely getting colder, but not cold enough for a proper coat yet, at least not to someone as stubborn as Dean, even though they expected snow the very next week, a bit later than usual. It’s a dark hunter’s green, and Dean likes the thicker collar. Sam had gotten it for him for Christmas over a week ago. Garth nods at him with a look of relief as he opens the door and closes it firmly behind him.   
Dean bites out a curse at the unexpected chill, but his pride is too great for him to go back inside for his real coat. He treks on down the street, watching the patches of black ice on the road. In the twenty minutes it take to get to the rows of shops he’s thoroughly frozen. It’s all but impossible to ignore the welcoming warmth he knows is inside of Anna’s, so he barely thinks about it when he pushes the door open and makes the bells jingle their greeting. He shakes himself as his body starts to absorb the heat of the room. It’s much busier today; just under a dozen people bustle about the shop, all bundled in clothes much thicker than Dean’s. He catches the barista’s eye as he glances up at the door and flits his gaze over him while helping a lone customer, a portly balding man, at the counter. Again Dean sees that asinine curled lip, as if he’s a fool for a reason he can’t even see. It’s probably how ridiculously cold he is compared to the already-chilled patrons. His face reddens lightly, and not from the warmth of the cafe, as he returns the look with a furrowed brow, though the other man has already turned his attention back to his customer.   
Dean walks up to the counter after the other swaddled man has received his coffee, eyeing the barista with a arched, slightly accusing, smirk and brow lift. The barista’s cool complex seems to lessen as he looks at Dean with interested eyes for a moment before Dean sets him free of his gaze to glance down at the pastry case. The man stares down at his toes almost casually, but just quick enough to tell. So he wasn’t as cool and mysterious when he wasn’t at a distance. Dean raises his head. The employee raises his own again and smiles at him, his eyes closed under long lashes, but his mouth still lined with discomfort. He visibly relaxes though, his tenseness having drawn attention from no one but Dean in it’s brief exposure. “I’ll have a chai tea, a plain coffee with three sugars, and one of those scones,” he says, gesturing to the blueberry items drizzled with honey. Benny said something about liking their scones, right? Dean figured this should be enough retribution for bothering him today, but no doubt Benny could weasel him into doing something else if he wanted to.   
His cool face back, the barista rings him up and takes his money, showing near apathy in regards to Dean, which makes Dean’s stomach falter. He drops the change into his hand when Dean holds it out. In the silence, Dean’s own confidence lessens, and he doesn’t make small talk, much as he wishes he would, while his drinks are made. He may, however glance at the barista while he works the coffee machine, and may or may not peek at his nametag. ‘Castiel’ hands him a white paper bag with Benny’s scone and then the two drinks. Dean takes one in each hand, his eyes flicking back up to Castiel’s face. He’s struck by the look of curiosity that is returned, intense and warming, making him wish he had actually spoke a word to the man. He swallows and takes his things, making his way back to the door. “Thanks, man,” he says as he pushes it open, back into the cold, not wanting to use the man’s actual name for fear of being awkward. He actually sees him raise a hand gingerly in salutation, the curious look now partnered with that small smirk, which doesn’t make Dean’s stomach jump in the least. 

Benny’s work isn’t exactly warm like the cafe, but it’s definitely not Virginia temperature in January. He’s working under the hood of a ‘96 Toyota when Dean ducks under the large metal folding door with the cups and bag in hand.   
“Heeey. There he is!” Benny says, raising his head and wiping his hands on a rag when Dean straightens. “Oh, look, he even brought payment.”  
“Fresh and hot with a big dollop of ass-kissing,” Dean grins widely and hands him  
his cup.  
“Hey, hey, now. Save that for your boss.” Benny takes his cup and bag from Dean’s right hand and promptly takes a sip of his drink. He sticks out his tongue in disgust and stares at the cup in complete vulgarity. Dean looks at him with a smirk.  
“Three sugars?”  
“Four,” Benny corrects and sets his items down, heading to the room in the back that serves as a kind of breakroom. He’s got a couple of guys working today, but two of the three have headphones on, and the third is enthralled by something underneath an old van. He’s got some space heaters set up to help chase away the chill, though the concrete garage isn’t exactly built to hold heat, it does help a bit.   
“You got it from Anna’s, that’s for sure, though,” Benny says as he comes back with a beat up packet of Sweet ‘n’ Low. He pops off his lid and pours it in, swirling it while Dean drinks from his own cup, hoping his ears aren’t pink and praying the cold would make an adequate excuse if they are.  
“Yeah, I almost froze to death on the way over. The place was like a bit of Heaven in Purgatory out there. Should thank me,” he gestures at Benny with his tea.  
Benny scoffs and laughs at his exaggeration, but thanks him all the same. He takes another drink of his now-fixed coffee and eyes Dean. “So, you see your pretty-eyed barista again? Your angel in your ‘little bit of Heaven’? Tell him I take my drinks a bit sweeter, next time.”  
Dean nearly spits his drink. “What? He’s not my-, what’s that supposed to mean?”  
Benny’s face is turning almost as red as Dean’s. He holds his stomach with one hand while trying not to spill his drink in the other as he laughs at Dean’s hot face. “Oh, nothin’, brother. You just got it bad is all I’m sayin’. What’s it been, two days since you seen ‘im?”  
He almost growls out that it’s been three, but doesn’t give his friend the satisfaction.  
Dean glares at him and then at his coffee cup as he takes a slow, disgruntled sip, burying his face in his collar.  
They banter back and forth most of the day, talking about Virginia and Lawrence and their college days. Even though, technically, Benny and Dean hadn’t gone to the same college. Benny had gone to the technical institute about a block away from Dean’s college, but they’d walked together, and talked, and were pretty good friends through their college years. They figured it counted. Now Dean is a professor and Benny owns his own garage, and they’re still good friends. Dean would even say best friend, of course to no one except for maybe Sam, he didn’t need anyone else seeing him being such a sap.

Bobby and Rufus make good on their promise, and a few days later a shiny black Chevy Impala pulls up outside of Garth’s place, standing out against the frost that’s accumulated. He’d been teasing Dean for days about how he looked like a kid before Christmas, but seeing Baby pulling up outside, Dean couldn’t find a single thought to spare for Garth’s teasing. He holds himself back from sprinting down the front steps and greets Bobby with a grin and a tight embrace. Rufus pulls up behind him in a rusty old pickup and hops out for the same treatment.  
Garth stands in the doorway with a scarf and a wide smile before coming down to greet the two older men. Rufus darts out under his legs at his namesake and hops around at his and Bobby’s feet, his tiny body shaking from equal parts excitement and chill.  
“This is the thing you named after me? Garth, this can’t even be considered a dog. It’s more like a ferret or somethin’,” Rufus says as he scoops up the tiny dog, who immediately begins nipping and biting at his face. “Agh!” the surly man says and hold the wriggling creature at arms’ length. Garth laughs and Bobby smirks at the pair while Dean runs a hand over his car and inspects her for any chips. He may love Bobby to death, but he doesn’t trust anyone with his baby. He breathes hot air onto it for good measure.  
Bobby looks back at Dean, bent over his car. “I didn’t scratch ‘er. I know how t’ drive ya idjit,” he barks with a smile and swats Dean’s back with his hat. Having passed her inspection, Dean looks up from Baby at the old man. Finally, Dean notices that’s he’s come outside in no protection other than his flannel, and the air bites him harshly, making him absently rub his arms.  
“Just makin’ sure, Bobby. Your eyesight ain’t what it used to be. Might’ve hit a kid and just kept goin’,” he jokes back as Bobby replaces his hat.   
Garth strolls further down the steps, having rescued Rufus from the little face-muncher now squirming in his arms. “I don’t know, Dean. Bobby could hit a whole family and not know it ‘til his tires were bein’ shot out.”  
“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t talk about such vulgarity around Baby! You’ll give her nightmares.” Dean smooths a hand over the side mirror, making soft murmurs before turning back to the group with a grin spread widely across his face. “I‘m freezing my ass off out here! Who’s up for dinner?”

As much as he’d like to be, Dean’s not brilliant when it comes to food. He’s not completely terrible at it, he just never invested enough time into it for him to be very good at it, either. So that’s what leads them down the road a few miles to a little pub, making sarcastic jokes over huge, messy piles they call burgers. Though their guffaws draw odd looks and glares from the few other customers, not an individual in the group could care in the least.   
Dean wipes his eyes as Garth attempts with little success to reign himself into some kind of composure at Rufus’s most recent response to a joke he didn’t understand, and, though they’d never tell for fear of their own lives, Rufus’s reaction is probably funnier than the joke ever could be. Apparently quite flustered, Rufus takes a huge bite from his burger and glares spitefully at the table before excusing himself, most likely off to Garth’s for a nap or to get into a heated argument with his dog, again.  
Dean sighs and lays his hands on the table, lacing his fingers around his beer bottle and smiling at it for a moment, running the nail of his thumb around the edge of the paper. “So, Bobby, how’s the kid? He liking the Stanford life?”  
Bobby takes a long pull from his own bottle before replying. “Oh, you know Sam. Give him a new place and he’s off like a shot, explorin’ and markin’ his new territory. Stickin’ his nose in any place he can. Gonna get it bit off one of these days. God knows he doesn’t call much, but you an’ I both know he’s probably made a batch a friends by now.”  
Dean smiles at that.  
“Think he said somethin’ about startin’ classes sometime last week? I dunno. Kid’s probably gonna get swamped in a month an’ wonder why he ever left.”  
Garth smirks, a fry hanging out of his mouth. “Aww, Bobby, are you missin’ him already?”  
Bobby eyes him with a sly smile. “Oh, hell no. Love the kid to pieces, but he doesn’t know how to shut his trap, even on a good day. Not like this ‘un.” He gestures to Dean with his bottle. “Couldn’t get ‘im to speak, let alone the chance to tell ‘im to shut up.”  
Dean grins and takes a drink and Bobby turns back to him.  
“Speakin’ of which, how ya been doin’, Dean? It’s not exactly Lawrence down here. Figured you’d’ve gotten tired a the city look by now.”  
“Well he is startin’ his fancy new teachin’ gig in a few days,” Garth says after swallowing another mouthful of food. He bumps Dean’s arm with a smile.   
Dean looks back down at his beer bottle and picks at the label with his thumbnail. “Aw, come on, guys. It’s a couple of photography classes. It’s no big deal. Snap a few pictures, talk about some different cameras, and that’s it.”  
He doesn’t expect the large hand that claps down on his shoulder, or the gruff voice speaking with a smile behind him. “He always was a modest one, even if he’s a bit more thick-headed than polite.”  
Benny drags up Rufus’s abandoned chair and looks around the table with his big, cheesy smile.  
“Yeah, he always did have a way with bein’ a bit of a dim bulb. Gotta love ‘im, though,” Bobby agrees. They both laugh. Benny gets ahold of a passing waitress and orders himself a beer. Dean’s a bit miffed, but he has to admit, he’s happy.   
“Aw, you guys are just bein’ jerks. Dean’s just bein’ nice is all, ain’t that right, Dean?” Garth encourages.  
Dean tips back in his chair a bit and stretches his arms and shoulders. “Yeah. I can’t be an asshole all of the time, can I?” The group has a quick laugh and Dean tips forward onto all four legs of his chair.  
“Has he told you about his big tour last Friday?” A busser appears and deposits Benny’s beer on the tabletop. He nods politely and smiles at her, and she flushes a bit before turning to bus another table nearby.   
“Not a word,” Garth answers with an accusing smirk at Dean.   
“Yeah, me either. Only seen him twice since.’Course it’s been almost a week, and a’ ‘course he never mentioned a word,” Benny laughs.  
“It’s not even a big deal, like I said. It’s just a couple classes.”  
“Well ya haven’t even told us what room you’re in. C’mon boy, there’s gotta be somethin’ to tell.”  
“Alright, it’s room 312. And I’m pretty sure the librarian’s either got a thing for me, or she wants to skin me and bind a book with it.” The group laughs and Benny gives him a funny eyebrow raise that Dean promptly ignores by taking another drink.   
“The kid who gave me the tour, Samandriel, I think, is in one of my classes. He’s a good kid. Kinda small, a bit shy, but a nice kid.”  
“So like you as a kid,” Bobby interjects.  
Dean rolls his eyes. “Sure, Bobby. Like I was. Anyway, he’s a good kid, so I can only imagine what the rest of ‘em’ll be like. I start next week, so I’ve only got a few days to clean my guns.”   
It gets a laugh from the group and Dean offers a smirk. Truth be told, he’s pretty nervous, but being Dean, there’s no way he’ll let it show. He almost wishes Sam was here to kick him and tell him to grow a pair, probably about more than his classes. He’d more than likely mention the time he’d chased a huge biker off of Sam’s ass at the bar on his 21st birthday. Well, “chase” not being quite the word, more along the lines of distracted and danced around him until they could sneak out the back, but hey, Sammy still thought of it as heroic. Meanwhile, now it’s Dean’s ass that could use some kicking into shape, but his brother is currently hundreds of miles away.  
After a while the group finally breaks and they head back to Garth’s where Bobby picks up a slightly annoyed, slightly asleep, Rufus, but not before threatening to leave him behind if he didn’t ‘stop riling up the overgrown rat’, an idea that neither Garth nor Dean were terribly keen on. Naturally, Garth defends that ‘he’s not a rat, he’s a whippet. He’s meant to run.’ Eventually Bobby herds the disgruntled man into the car, and they’re waving goodbye, and Garth bids the remaining twosome goodnight, leaving Benny and Dean in the livingroom. Exhausted but not worn out from the boisterous visitors, Dean sits anxiously on the couch, barely keeping his fingers from drumming on his knee. Benny takes notice.  
“Y’er tappin’ out Zeppelin again. Feelin’ a bit antsy there, brother?”  
“I just- I gotta get outta here, man. You want to go to the bar? That drink didn’t do enough for me.”  
“I know your deal with people. Don’t have to ask me twice.”

It’s two in the morning before Dean stumbles back through the door, a giggling mess of a man. He’d nearly gotten thrown out of the bar, and he would’ve if it hadn’t been for Benny getting a hold on him. Apparently the other patrons didn’t take to drunken outbursts of laughter or shouting for no reason that was apparent to them. Needless to say, Benny was the only thing keeping him from most likely getting shanked, but when it came to getting together, neither one of them was good at being responsible. Toddlers policing toddlers was more like it, but being able to let loose like that wasn’t something they’d been able to do for a while. Contented and drowsy, Dean falls into a deep sleep.


End file.
